Here's My New Address: 666
by Addictive Insanity
Summary: Marie doesn't like her parents, that much is clear. Her contempt for them only solidifies when her mother suggests a rest stop in the town of Gatlin, abandoned, yet full of wicked possibilities. Her hatred doesn't last long, though.
1. Be Quiet and Drive

Here's My New Address: 666—CotC

**DISCLAIMER, DISCLAIMER**, oh, **DISCLAIMER!** I do not own any of the lovable characters from Children of the Corn, for they belong to Stephen King. But, I do own those who aren't mentioned in Children of the Corn, and if you're reading this story, I hope you have at least some background on the characters and the storyline.

What can I say about this beginning? I didn't want to start off right away, like have them lodged into the situation now. No, that's for the _second _chapter, if I'm to make it that far. I also hope for this to deviate from becoming a cliché, but already I can tell that's going to be slightly difficult. Hm, oh yes! I must warn you that if you're hoping for this to be one of those lovey dovey stories, you are sadly mistaken. So I'm not going to mislead you. For me, there is no love for the children of the corn. They're a bunch O' stubborn brats, for sure.

Hope someone likes it, at least. I know my writing may sound immature, but it's honestly because (mostly) it's hard for me to be serious about CotC. I seriously laugh every time I think about it, like now. Yikes. Well enjoy, and hopefully it's not too crappy!

Cause I don't promise anything. Anything!

---

The clouds overhead were swirls of black, twisted and swollen heavy with rain, nearly seeming to burst as the imagination that ran wild inside my head began to seize control. Already, my eyes began to glaze over, and I could feel the drool dampening around the corners of my mouth as I stared off into space.

I haven't ever, I can tell you, ever, seen so much goddamn corn in all my promising sixteen years of dull life. I also haven't ever gone on so long without saying one critical word, for I haven't whined out a single complaint since early this afternoon, possibly four hours ago, when I had been chewing on a greasy burger that tore off and tasted exactly like rubber. How would I know? Don't ask questions you don't want to hear the answers to.

My parents certainly hadn't minded my change in attitude. In fact, they probably embraced it as a blessing, an act of God to show that he is taking pity on them.

No, they just sat in the front seats, talking animatedly as my father drove and my mother darted her bug eyes (or as I loved to call them fish eyes, because that's what they were) across the map. Nebraska. Why in the hell were we here, of all godforsaken places?

"We're not here because we want to be, but because we have to be," I mouthed the words spoken earlier by my mother, and the answer had only annoyed me further.

Yes, but why am _I _here? Was the question I truly wanted to ask, to make matters even more difficult for her than they already seemed to be. My aunt was dying, so what? I hadn't known the woman for more than two seconds in my life, and, let's face it, those two seconds occurred when I was seven-years-old, and on the _telephone_. And her first question had been: Who the hell are you?

To which I gave the sullen reply: Your beloved niece, Marie.

So why should I care?

"Because she's your aunt," my father had replied, though with hidden disdain for her, and it seemed to him, just the way that he implied it; it should have been the most obvious reason to me. He had said that three weeks prior to our little "road trip", and even then I had told them that I wouldn't go. I had stomped around in the kitchen for hours, bawling and yelling and whining and shouting and breaking things, until I had worn myself out. At least I had slept well that night.

But if they had sent me out to Nebraska sooner, seeing all this corn, I think I would be able to sleep for decades.

I directed my attention to the back of my mother's head, her strawberry curls catching my eyes as she shook her bony fingers through them, glancing at herself through the side-view mirror, her face lighting up in what I could only hope to think was a smile.

"Shallow," I mumbled, leaning forward in my seat so that I could get a better view of the winding road ahead, amazing with its display of cracks and tire marks, and not to mention, lack of cars. The last time I had spotted a car had been on the Turnpike, which my father had decided was unfit for our travel, and took a back road instead. Way to go, daddy-O.

I decided that since nothing else worth my attention was happening, I would let my imagination take over once again, as it so often did without my permission. I continued to stare at the road, picturing our 1984 Chevy Monte Carlo to start spiraling out of control, my parents sputtering out last hopes and prayers as my dad couldn't seem to fix his mistakes, sending us flying off the shoulder of the road and into the stalks of corn, which the car flattened. I pictured myself, alive and well, bruised in some places but not many, the only survivor of the accident, with a wicked laugh burbling from my throat. My worries had died in the car wreck, and there would be no more strict religion controlling my life, no more parents to preach to me about right and wrong.

My heart sank at what thoughts my imagination had brought forth, a frown weighing down my lips. The picture began to fade away, leaving me to think in its wake. It made me feel somewhat monstrous, to have an inner desire for my parents to die in some horrible way. It also made me feel partially right about how I felt, for how they treated me, ignoring me when I didn't tag along with their beliefs, turning their backs on me when I had made a silly decision, something every teenager is known to have done. Even them.

They just never would admit to it. If I told them that they had did this wrong, or did that wrong, they would send me away, or entreat with me to follow in their footsteps, to become the shining star of a daughter they had always hoped for.

Well, she was long gone, but that wasn't what they wanted to hear.

I forced myself to tear away from my thoughts, sighing heavily before I ripped through the silent blanket that had draped itself over the car while I was away. "How long is it going to be like this?" I mumbled, perching my feet on my mother's pointed shoulders (did she ever slouch?) locking my Chucks around her neck playfully, trying to stir a response from her, anything that would appease my sudden craving for attention.

But she only tore my weak lock away, pushing my feet roughly back to where they belonged. I sneered at the back of her curly mane, crossing my arms against my chest as I huffed, and puffed, but didn't blow the roof off the car. Not this time, which was an extreme rarity for me. I was always used to tweaking reactions—mostly negative—out of people, especially from my own mother, who was refusing to acknowledge my petty existence in the backseat.

"I'm beginning to think you people took me out in the middle of nowhere just to kill me and then run." I chortled awkwardly, and then giggled at my perturbing sense of humor.

"That's not funny, Marie." My father scolded, but I had the feeling that it was, indeed, funny to him, or possibly not too high to take into consideration. And here I thought that he had no sense of humor. He never laughed, because my mother had bled him dry throughout the years. It was what, among few other things, she did best.

This trip was going to tear every string of insanity I had within me, and I could almost hear the thin lines snapping in my head, reverberating against my skull. Where was the fun in being sane? My eyes were reluctantly pinned, once again, to the back of my mother's jungle of hair. Fun hid itself from you when you were sane.

"Can't you just listen to your Walkman for an hour, at the most? It's hard to concentrate on the road when you're back there, sulking." Finally, a response from mommy dearest, who either felt my eyes burning deep holes into the back of her head, or saw me looking from the side mirror. She stared in it enough for three women to be satisfied, of that I was certain.

But honestly, what was there for either of them to pin so much concentration to? No cars, no wild animals just waiting to be road kill, and definitely no pedestrians. I almost asked, but timidly backed myself away, yet another rarity among all others that I have committed today. I was on a roll, and my mind refused to quit tumbling.

I started to think about what I would be doing back in Missouri, most likely with my best friend, Sarah. We would probably end up causing mischief one way or another, stuffing someone's mailbox to the brim with rotten meat, or pocketing things from drug stores that were of no use to anyone. My eyes glittered at the thought, and a dopey smile formed on my face. Anything, just to be away from here.

"—not such a good idea." Reality came back to me, flooding my eyes with what I didn't want to see. My father was doing some sort of bird dance as he argued, as lightly as he could manage, with my mother, who was throwing words in-between his, turning off her ears at what he had to say. Typical.

"It's only a few miles away!" She induced, pointing at a sign that read _**Gatlin – 3 miles, **_as if he couldn't read.

"I really don't think it's a good—"

"We need a rest stop!" Her fish eyes flashed to me briefly, and then she spoke again. "And who knows when we'll get another chance? We could eat, and maybe even try to cope with the current situation."

_Or maybe you just want to delay this trip even further than it has to be. _

I rolled my eyes as I snuggled my body deeper into the comfort of the leather seat, grinning as she continued to get herself worked up. All for some stupid town called Gatlin.

"Honey, listen to me, I—" He was cut off, yet again.

"Marie, honey, what do you think?" Her icy eyes turned to meet mine, and in them, I saw a deceiving shimmer. She only asked for my opinions when she wanted to win, so I shrugged nonchalantly, staring out into the sea of corn. "Sounds stupid."

I glanced over to see her reaction, baffled, her red lips pressed into a thin line, anger flashing hotly through her eyes.

"Let's just do it, Robert," She growled softly, still facing me, and then she turned around, slamming her back against her seat. She was a trifle mad, I assumed, and that feat pleased me very much.

I didn't think my father would give in to the temptress this time, having my vote on the matter, but when he shrugged his shoulders, heaved a sigh, and called it quits, I sat up straight in my seat, mouth agape.

"Excuse me?" I kept my voice low, disbelieving. Gatlin, Nebraska, a town that probably wasn't on the map—that's why they posted its insignificance on far too many signs this past hour—seemed full of possibilities, and no, I'm not referring to the good ones.

The first thought that wedged itself into my mind had been sneaky, and utterly horrifying. It sounded like a town full of psychos, _religious _psychos. I could imagine our car arriving before some grand church—as grand as they come in tiny towns that weren't printed on maps—with ladies dressed in flowery dresses and men in faded navy tuxedos swarming around the car with bibles cradled in their arms, amiable expressions on their frightening faces.

And, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be back home, far away from this hellhole of a place.

Maybe, as far as I could go.

---

Okay, not a good way to end it, I understand, but I got tired of writing the intro because I don't like writing intros, though I believe they are one of the most important parts to a story. If you read it, mucho thanks to you. Damn, I have got to stop writing now, my brain hurts. (I'm pretty stupid). And it's short, I know.

Constructive criticism, anyone? :]


	2. Blur the Technicolor

Gatlin, the tiny town, turned out to be the _teeny _tiny town, although it seemed much larger than I was sure it was worth, taken into consideration that the streets were hopelessly abandoned, a cloud of lament trailing around, unexplainable grief that had closed around my insides with its misty fist before we came to a slammed stop that threw my body forward, and then back against the seat. I could feel tears welling up in the corner of my eyes, being able to stare so openly at everything surrounding the car outside, buildings that seemed to be in complete ruins beyond repair, as if some tragic storm had torn its way through, no room for survivors once it was finished. As if to intensify the feeling, a droplet of rain splattered against my window, others following closely in pursuit. From somewhere farther away, thunder shook this small world, rolling on for long periods of time. I was waiting for the lightning to crack open the sky, but it wouldn't come even after five minutes of stillness. My parents seemed dead in their seats.

There were no cars, something that struck me as highly unusual, and, taking in my theory of a merciless storm—perhaps a twister, like in the Wizard of Oz—I wondered if they had all been blown away, or to pieces. Or if, in a struggle to make it out alive, the poor people of Gatlin had jammed their keys into the ignitions in an attempt to flee, and maybe—a small part of my heart leaped at the thought—they had made it.

My eyes swept over one venerated building to the next, what still remained of those standing—at least on this side of town—dwindling for a moment longer on the one that was stated to be Gatlin Bar & Grill, the sign hanging off the side of the ramshackle restaurant, the cracked windows dusty and brown, keeping the inside of the building hidden from my eyes. That didn't discourage my thoughts though, which were focused on what the last meal had been for the people of Gatlin.

_Do you really want to know? _My conscious intervened, persistently knocking on the door that led to the stream of my most precious thoughts, waiting to be allowed to enter. I ignored it, despite the racket it continued to make, as I squinted with my eyes, yearning to see at least something—anything. An empty barstool possibly, or a powdery remains of a table that had once served people so long ago.

Nothing. I could feel a bead of sweat swiveling down the back of my neck, and I slapped at it absently, turning my head forward and drawing a blank. My thoughts, and, surprisingly enough, conscious, appeared to have gone mute, fallen on my deaf ears as they began to adjust to the unbearable silence.

My parents didn't stir, and it seemed that if I even so much as dared to open my mouth to speak, everything surrounding the car would break. Windows that hadn't been crushed under pressure would suddenly burst, flying shards of glass shattering against the roof of the car, and everything would spin off and lose control. I didn't want that to happen, though I _knew _(didn't I?) that it had been nothing but imagination, a fictional feeling, _irrational _and childish. Yet I believed it.

A question had formed from somewhere in the dark recess of my mind, and it was one I didn't want to answer.

_Why are we still here?_

It slapped against my brain, just as a wet paper caught up in a windstorm would have done to a storefront window. And from it, others formed.

_Why aren't we turning around? What is wrong with mom and dad? Shouldn't you __**say **__something? Why are you allowing them to __**do **__this?_

**Do what? **The other part of me, the sarcastic, witty part, chased the timid part away. **Nothing's happening, can't you see? **

_Exactly._

I suddenly panicked, my chest heaving up and down, the voices in my head becoming one large jumble in a pot of confusion.

"Mom, dad!" I shouted, gaining the reaction I had least expected.

They both turned to face me—slowly, as if their bones were made of glass and would splinter if they weren't careful—their eyes staring lowly down at my shrunken form, so frail and childlike compared to their large, imposing frames. And, it felt like old times, when each would corner me, slowly break me down into shredded pieces, and tear me apart with their disappointment. I couldn't deal with it, and I suddenly snapped, the tears that had been pressing from earlier finally leaking through with a stinging vengeance. I felt as if I would wet myself, their expressions cold and slated—masked.

As if they had something great to hide.

Then, everything changed. My mother's face was back to its usual worried expression, her eyebrows turned down in confusion. My father's reflected hers, as they stared quietly at one another, appearing to have a secret conversation with their eyes.

Then, she spoke. "I don't understand, Robert. Why would people post signs that lead to an empty town?" Her voice seemed more robotic than what was normal, as if she had planned to say those exact words at that moment. And the more that I studied her; everything seemed a bit off, though I could just as easily have dismissed it if I weren't so crucial when it came to details. Her hair, bright and golden, was tinted slightly with gray, and her eyes, an ice blue, seemed faded and bloodshot. I noticed every little wrinkle on her face, the dark purple bags under her eyes, like she hadn't slept for days. The color of her skin, once so rosy, was now pallid, and an assortment of bruises, big and small, blue and green, were painted on her arms.

_What the hell is going on?_

"Excuse me, Marie?" My father questioned, his cheeks turning a dark shade of purple, his murky eyes hardening as they met mine. I couldn't help myself as I watched his skin, glistening in the hoary lighting with sweat, something I had never seen before. I could always remember my dad as being a clean man, one who didn't sweat, if ever. It always seemed to me that no matter how high the temperature, sweat would evade him. Or, he would somehow evade sweat.

"W-what?" I tilted my head to the side. Had I spoken aloud without realizing?

"Why would you say that word, Marie, haven't we told you before?" The volume of his voice was rising, his eyes wide as they calculated my expression, reaching in to my very soul.

"Why would you say that word?" Mom joined in, without facing me. The proximity of my father made me shake, on the edge of bawling.

"I don't know!" I cried. "I'm sorry!"

"He will not take pity on your soul! He will not forgive you!" My father sobbed out, tears streaming down his cheeks from his eyes, which brought forth the realization that it hadn't been sweat at all. He had been crying.

My bottom lip started to tremble, so I bit down on it, drawing blood, to make it stop. Pain scratched its greedy claws against my head, pressure pounding from within, something waiting to be released, but what?

"Let's get out of here," I demanded. "Please."

No response, just the same steely stare.

"Please, daddy, let's go!"

_When was the last time you called him daddy?_

"This town is great. Why would we leave it?" He questioned, one calloused hand reaching out for my cheek, where he planted it there, brushing his thumb slowly across the corner of my lip. Then he squeezed my cheeks together, edging closer yet.

"Why would we leave it?" He repeated, a maniacal smile creeping up on his dried lips.

"Let go of me." It took all my strength just to pry his fingers off, and even when I was successful, the other hand came out from nowhere, snatching my hands, swallowing them whole.

"We bleed out here," a hoarse whisper sprouted from his throat. My heart skipped a beat, waiting for him to finish. "We bleed into the corn."

I tried tugging free, tried to break through the fleshy shackles, pulling as hard as I could, until I was sure I was going to pull him onto my lap. But he didn't budge, and as much as it pained me to do it, regret washing through my veins, I leaned over and bit his arm as hard as I could, a sharp howl filling the car, tearing through the silent disguise, where it transformed into a horrible laughter.

My hands were fumbling for the buckle of my seat belt, where it slid off my body with reluctance, and I flung myself out the car door, hitting the awaiting asphalt. I released a shaky breath when my ribs landed on a jagged rock, but the fear was much stronger, somehow potent over anything else.

"Daddy?" I called stupidly, watching the driver door creak open, the figure behind it safely hidden in the darkness that was falling. It seemed to silence everything it touched.

I expected to see anything but his face staring back, a hungry monster of some sort, but it was still my father, my _father, _his dead eyes narrowing into mine, descrying to me my own fear.

"All your answers lie from within the corn, Marie. The corn sees all. It is watching as we speak."

"Who are you?" I whined, sliding back. "Where _are _you?"

"It keeps Him satisfied, the blood of the adults. And He shall be very satisfied tonight, Marie. I do hope that you will watch."

That was the last thing my father said, before the real eyes behind that mask stared out at me, as red as the purest forms of blood, glowing brilliantly under a full moon. And, before I had a chance to flee, something smooth and cold slid across my neck, spilling my blood out into the open as I tried to take in one last breath.

Everything went dark, but just before it did, the monster's mouth opened into a smile, Its teeth sharp and peeking out at me, Its rank breath flowing through my nostrils.

_It keeps Him satisfied. The blood. _

Then my eyes opened, breaking away the bonds of the nightmare, leaving me to trek through my own terror.

I sat up too fast, throbs of pain stabbing into my temples, traveling down to my chest and into the chamber where my heart beat slowed to a crawl, the breath in my lungs rushing out all at once, as if someone had sucker punched me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. For a moment, I had forgotten who I was, (what was my name?) memories being locked away, the dream (nightmare?) hidden someplace I didn't want to venture. I was, though I probably wouldn't admit it to another living soul, frightened to the point where I was literally out of my mind. I couldn't think straight, so I waited, my hands in fists and bloodless in my lap, for everything to come back to me, like a lost puppy trapped in the rain.

But it didn't quite happen like that. Instead, I stared around the car, searching for something, and definitely not for the blood that was sleek and shiny on the tan seats. My eyes twitched slightly, the color fascinating to me as I reached out to dip my fingers in it, and it was then that everything came, rushing at me like a wrecking ball, smashing into my face.

A scream pressed against my lips, tears blinding my sight, changing the world into blurs of color (blurs of bright, bloody red) and my mind collapsed. I noticed cornhusks, dried and golden, strewn about the car, seeming to fit right in with it all, the situation, my madness, and the _blood. _It was like the missing piece to the puzzle—my nightmare—and I bolted out the door as I remembered every little detail, horror pumping hotly through my veins.

The pavement was littered with droplets of blood, as well as the dead leaves of corn, and I could feel the bile rising up my throat, but I swallowed it down, wringing out my hands as I took a step forward, careful not to get any on my shoes.

_Let's go with your Wizard of Oz theory. Just follow the droplets of blood._

But was that truly the way to go? Follow the exact path the killer had made, the one that they intended me to follow? The one that they _wanted _me to discover? _Expected_ me to use?

I stopped in my tracks, the decisions becoming burdens to my mind, but the thought of my parents, dead and cold, losing blood, outweighed everything.

No. I didn't want this to happen. I thought I did, hell, I think a lot of things, but it was something that I didn't actually think was possible. I honestly thought they would die, in their golden years, still ignorant, yet blissful as always. Still my parents, not dead faces to be dropped behind for the past to swallow.

So I trailed along—the puppy, trapped in the storm—stepping carefully, yet determinedly beside the glistening red, looking up from time to time to see where it was I was being…

_Herded. _

Though I couldn't see them, I could detect their eyes, setting my back on fire, making me sweat, forcing me into the panic that only fueled my steps, injected my mind with images of the worst possible outcomes. I wanted to run back to the car. I wanted to jam the keys hastily into the ignition, as I had imagined that the people of Gatlin had done in what seemed like only minutes ago, in my nightmare. Or was I awake? I wondered as my heart sank. It was hard to grasp, difficult to understand.

_Are you awake now? _

I wasn't too sure about that, either, but I hoped, almost clutched onto the idea, that this was a device being put to use by my own twisted mind. I hoped, so much in fact, that I became reliant on the dim thought, trying to feel invincible as the trail abruptly ended, and I nearly stumbled into the entrance—the corn.

_Of course. It makes sense._

But that didn't make me feel any inclination to enter. In fact, it made me take a step back, and then another, my arms wrapping around my stomach, as if to protect myself from the hidden stares. The corn rustled, my heart pounding furiously, as my eyes swept across the man-high stalks, the sound gone and leaving me completely clueless as to where it had come from.

"Show yourselves!" I shouted out, referring to the people hidden so dexterously from my view. Peeking out at me from their safe shadows, nothing but cowards.

The faint acrid smell of smoke intoxicated my nose, and the multiple trample of footsteps from close behind made me stiffen. I found myself, for the first time in nearly ten years, whispering a silent prayer. A habit I had lost so long ago, when I refused to believe.

_Where are you now, God, when I need you the most?_

I could hear their hoarse breaths, all around, and I knew that was my cue to turn around, to see what I was up against. What startled me the most had not been the variety of weapons clenched in their fists—axes, pitch forks, butcher knives, rusted cleavers, sickles, and even torches, highlighting my features with orange.

None of that seemed to matter. What squeezed my heart together with fear was their ages, seeming to range from seven to fifteen, and their faces, more aged than I had ever seen, showing their experience, displaying their _anger_, forcing my knees to tremble, and then to suddenly collapse. I had forgotten about the blood, my parents, and my instincts. I couldn't remember anything other than to breathe slowly through my nostrils, as the darkness closed itself around my form, wrapping me tight in black sheets of silken misery.

Then, they locked me up in a tight circle, their expressions unafraid, bold. They used their weapons without any hint of regret, as my blood spilled, joining the little droplets, forming a giant pool in comparison. I lost a lot, and when they seemed appeased as I slammed my head down on the rocky blacktop, they dispersed and left me alone, possibly to die.

Then, God seemed to finally recognize my desperate prayer, as another sound approached, footsteps much heavier than the children's, as my breath clogged up in my throat. The dark silhouette seemed to reach out for me, but I knew better than that, and tried to crawl away, to no avail.

Its hand clutched my shirt, and I realized it would have turned out okay if I had just stepped into the corn and continued my search, as I was dragged away.

I left my own trail of blood, one that no one would follow.

Criticism, por favore? :]


	3. Lunatic Fringe

He sat alone, long, bony fingers positioned at the entrance to his bloodless lips, eyes set ablaze, like twin coals, cast in thought upon the moon's brilliant radiance, which soaked his chamber with its tranquility, a white blush. His pose gave off a wave of elegance, of grace and perturbing beauty, while his nature reeked of the putrid stink of death, almost a sweet odor if you didn't sniff closely enough, but under it, that rotted stench gathered. His features, set in stone, rarely ever hinted at his true age, which no one exactly knew. Instead of expressing the clumsy nature of a child, he displayed the power of a rightful ruler, the one who had been chosen to be the strong voice needed to carry out His words.

He was impatient, though it would do him no good to admit it. His stubborn cockiness wouldn't allow it, wouldn't allow him to be like all the others. Dogs.

This fact, however much he knew was daring for him to so much as even think, proved itself to him with each passing day. They would bow down to him if it meant for them to be in the Lord's favor, though inside he knew they resented him as much as he did them. And, avoiding the moonlight's sudden glare, he was afraid. He was frightened inside, of losing his power, of losing everything he had ever worked for. He could almost see it coming, foretell the future as the days turned into nights, and the nights turned into cold, numbing loneliness. He didn't want to be overtaken, but what would the Lord do if he had?

His heart, though many assumed his dwarf-like stature didn't contain one, constricted tightly, lost tears arising from someplace that could only be damned.

He wanted to remain their leader forever. But time, as it progressed, showed its true intentions—He Who Walks Behind the Rows' ambitions—and he knew he would not be blessed for that long.

Slowly, painfully, his time was coming to a crashing stop. And he knew.

---

"Outlander!" The voice called, cracking from the rage it held, a never-ending supply, it seemed. "Outlander, where are you?"

Shoes pounding against pavement, the rusted clangs of metal scraping against concrete.

"The old man runs fast," the voice muttered, cursing rather loudly in the brightness of the day, disbelief and annoyance channeling through Malachi's veins. He turned to his hesitant and frightful followers, who had fallen in step behind his massive ones, and glared deeply into their eyes, dousing their bodies with shivers.

"Find him." It was nearly a whisper, yet still received the same, tearful gazes. The children knew that if they did not find and seize the old man, the religious father who had snuck past them the night before, punishment in the form of Malachi's boiling anger would inevitably find them. Knowing that fact, that it could possibly mean death, they scattered, relief washing through them if not only for a moment, grateful to no longer be prisoner under his stare.

"We should have killed him already!" He screeched angrily, whatever crumb of sanity that still remained dissolving away. His fingers curled tightly around the comforting handle of his hunting knife, which he never was without, the blood of the mother still glinting wetly on it. He smirked, remembering the feel of the blade against her neck, her blank expression which had told him that she had submitted, and without much of a fight. Though he loved the feeling when they ran away from him, the feeling of another's fear, which he could smell from a mile away, and the rushing of adrenaline through his body, it was a change for him to feel a new kind of power, that power which made people accept death and take it silently. And the woman hadn't even screamed. He hated when they screamed, cried, or begged. It was pathetic.

His footsteps, doom echoing along with every one, claimed the street as his own for this portion of the day, afternoon, and the children knew that they were expected to avoid his path.

_Not that they would ever come forth willingly. _He thought, the satisfaction it brought keeping him from breaking completely. He knew it would be his ass if the father wasn't captured by nightfall, for it was his night for his blood to be shed for the Lord, his body His and only His to claim, not the loyal blade of Malachi's knife. The actuality of it all might have annoyed him further, had it not been for the sounding approach of another. Ruth, he realized as she came into view from under the blinding sunlight, and he forced himself to stand straighter, composing his feelings of contempt.

_Two years, is that how long she has been burdening you with her presence? _But he knew it was how it must go on to be. His slated eyes rested upon her protruding belly, catching himself from wincing, imagining the little demon that resided inside it—his child. The little wench just wasn't satisfied, was she? Didn't she realize that his love for her had crumbled after the first few weeks of their joining? He bit back his scowl as she stepped in front of him, blocking the sun from his eyes, a warmth surrounding the very air around her, and it wasn't from the sunrays, he knew.

"What is it?" He barked, glaring down at her tiny frame, such a startling comparison to his 6'3 stature.

She glared back, though he knew she didn't truly mean it—couldn't bring herself to. She loved him too much, though the reason why still lingered as a main interest in his mind.

"I have come to bring you news." She muttered softly, her eyes losing the battle of their little staring contest, drifting away toward the houses that rose behind him. She was weak, he knew, though nonetheless happy at that feat. She wasn't as strong as everyone made her out to be, that was certain.

"Then what are you waiting for?" He grouched, displaying his impatience as he tilted his frame to the left, seeing past her shoulder. Watching.

"Isaac has reached a decision." A small smile etched across her pretty face, her doe eyes twinkling slightly.

Suddenly, interest took over, his expression now hopelessly curious and less intimidating. "What are his plans for the disgusting interloper? Her blood only pollutes the street, for the corn has rejected it. It will take weeks to scrub it out," he mumbled, hatred searing through his bones.

"She is to live. Isaac has given me no other word, other than that she will, if she desires to, join us."

"He is giving her a choice?" He questioned, his loud voice shattering Ruth's collected stance. "She must die tonight, along with her father! She must watch him die first, and then wait for her turn! She has _defiled _the corn!" He ranted, his chest heaving with the scorching anger that had chained him to a leash of bitterness. He was speaking to her as if it had been her decision, and her eyes lowered as she took a step back, placing a protective hand over her stomach.

"Are you speaking out against His wishes?" She inquired, accusing him with her chocolate eyes. "You dare to question what He wants?"

He was panting, partly from the heat of the sun, but mostly from the sudden rampage that was occurring inside him, a war of strong emotions at battle. His alarm showed through, and Ruth smiled defiantly up at him, crossing her arms as if she had won.

"I believe everything He says, my only wish is to serve him." Malachi whispered hoarsely, though truthfully enough, as she reached up to brush his red strands of hair back affectionately, standing on her tiptoes in order to peck him on the lips. He turned his head away, closing his eyes tightly, shielding his thoughts as if she could read them. Knowing that she might turn against him and tell Isaac of his little outburst, he wrapped his arms around her waist, held her close, listened to the footsteps that hit the pavement, victorious shouts of glee interrupting them from the distance. Grateful for their return for once in his life, he quickly slipped away from her disappointed form and turned his back to her, walking toward their gathering bodies.

He needed to hear good news.

--

Isaac was almost always guaranteed to be found locked up in his chamber, a secretive, closed off section of the church, and though all the children knew of its location, the daring outlanders who had, in the past, stumbled upon the tidy white church by mistake, had been oblivious to its existence. It was his private place where he could reflect upon his most inner thoughts, as well as listen to the Lord freely without disturbance. In lesser words, it was highly convenient. It was essential.

Isaac's gaze was focused on what went on outside from the shaded view of his window, where he stood off to the side, his eyes sweeping across the children at play, the younger ones who had no clue yet as to what this existence meant, soaking up in the forbidden pleasures of tag and nursery rhymes. Seeing but not caring, because this was not a major issue compared to everything else flying around inside his head.

The Lord's words had confused him greatly, deep wrinkles of concern burrowed into his forehead as he tried to delve deep for the hidden meaning. He had made Isaac promise to allow Marie to live if she so wished and become part of the sacred family. It was a gift that wasn't to be wasted on anybody, especially an impotent little girl, which is exactly what she seemed, to Isaac as well as many of the others. Though he believed everything the Lord had said, and that what the Lord said was the law, a small flame of jealousy had ignited in his chest. What could He Who Walks Behind the Rows possibly need from Marie, when Isaac had always been here to loyally serve him? What could a helpless wench do that could possibly work in His favor?

His fists were bone-white at his sides as these thoughts and questions swirled around his head, becoming blank faces that jeered at him as the flames inside him began to flicker from orange to a deep, blood red. What could any of this possibly mean? Just what were His plans?

It was the first time; Isaac realized dimly, that he had not received any word of what they might be.

Was this punishment for sending the ambushers to dispose of her? Shivers traced up his spine, tangling deep inside his dark hair.

Everything seemed to vanish as Isaac listened to the three sturdy raps on the door, and a small smile crept upon his cracked lips. He had been expecting company for quite some time.

"You may enter."

And so he did, never one to be silent, as his black boots thumped loudly against the wooden floors, scuffing to a stop on the forest green carpet beside a mahogany desk, where a heavy bible lay.

Isaac twirled around in an instant, briefly leaving time for the redhead to grasp the agile movement, and smiled largely as Malachi unsheathed his knife, bowing down slightly before he replaced it and awaited permission to speak. Isaac stood still for a moment, as if to taunt him, and then nodded stiffly, smile never fading.

"The father has been captured, once again. We have left him with no further desire to run, so that will no longer be a problem. However, his blood spills fast, and we don't know how long he'll—"

Isaac was suddenly searing with rage, and underneath his skin he could feel the blood boiling. "The mother is dead. The father is dying. Can you not follow simple orders, Malachi?" His voice remained calm, and Malachi shrunk back slightly, his eyes downcast and stony.

"We had no choice!" He shouted, and Isaac smirked at the foolish statement, a pathetic attempt of an excuse.

"We?" He questioned, his tone mocking, as he faced the window once again, noticing that the children had vanished and the orange glow of the setting sun. His heart clenched tightly inside, but none of this made an outward appearance. "Do not underestimate me, Malachi, for I know more than you could ever wish. There was blood on your knife," he pointed out raucously, as if to provoke him even further. "Why?"

The redhead was silent behind him, and if Isaac's senses hadn't been so abnormally attuned, he would have considered the possibility of him sneaking off.

"The mother," he replied, as if unsure of himself. Isaac chuckled darkly, striding away from the window and toward the giant, stopping short at the desk, staring down at the heavy book.

"Yes, the mother," Isaac repeated the words, his tone still deriding, a glitter to his eyes as he thumbed absently through the book, staring at the names printed on each page.

"Tell me about her."

Silence, unusual, but nonetheless a blessing, especially coming from Malachi, drifted through the air.

"You know nothing!" Isaac suddenly roared, slamming the book shut and forcing the redhead to jolt unexpectedly.

"You disgust me. The father's blood was to be sacrificed to He Who Walks Behind the Rows, and yet it is out there, being spilled into the soil as we currently speak." Isaac growled, baring his canines. "The Lord is greatly displeased with you, Malachi."

He seemed to step back upon hearing that fact, a trace of fear glinting wetly in his eyes. "What about the girl?" He suggested, and Isaac closed his eyes from the distastefulness of the idea, though inside he felt that it was right. But his mind controlled his heart, and he only shook his head sharply.

"No. The Lord, a great rarity indeed, has accepted the girl. We are not to sacrifice her."

"But she is weak," Malachi hissed between his teeth, his thoughts converging on the night before, how easy her blood had spilt and how the corn had rejected it.

All that dispelled with the raise of Isaac's palm, demanding silence. Malachi relaxed, closing off any other foul thing he had to say, and Isaac was satisfied with how he obeyed. He was getting better, the biggest, yet hardest dog of the bunch. He was becoming his puppet.

"She has a purpose, as do we all. However, more important matters are to be looked upon. There must be a sacrifice tonight." Isaac was now trembling on the inside, looking desperately over his shoulder to now notice that the sky was a dark red, transfusing into a furious purple. "Or there will be consequences."

The redhead nodded once, seeming to consider something.

"Jacob will be nineteen in a few days. We could offer him to the Lord early."

Isaac was displeased with this suggestion as well, but it was the only alternative.

"Do what you must to satisfy Him. And do it well." Isaac turned again to the window, remembering something the Lord had instructed him to do.

"And make sure the girl sees her parents one last time. It is the Lord's command."


	4. Deathblow

Yikes. Well, I switched POV's quite a lot in this, so I'm sorry if it annoys you, but I kinda felt the need to so you could get a grip on how everyone is feeling. I know each POV is pretty short, but this chapter was hard to write. I hope I'm not losing it, but maybe it's for the better.

Mucho thanks to Sinister Sanity and Iokaste for reviewing my story, it really does mean a lot and though I have yet to learn how to shorten my sentences better, I really appreciate the constructive criticism.

Also thanks to those other silent subscribers (and I say silent because I haven't heard from you) for, um, reading! I'm trying hard on this story so I hope it at least shows. I'm not exactly used to the idea of writing fan fiction, but it's a refreshing change. And now on to the story!

Malachi Boardman had never considered himself as Isaac's messenger boy, let alone special delivery boy, as he trudged down Main Street, staring off ahead with a dull sense of awareness. Though he knew the others viewed it as otherwise, whispered differently when his back was turned, he refused to let any of it matter to him. He was working for the Lord, not Isaac. Isaac only spoke His words, and therefore, Malachi concluded proudly, he was obeying what the Lord commands.

Retrieving the girl and bringing her to the Clearing—_isn't that another word for delivering? _His mind teased—had to be the simplest of all tasks he had ever been assigned. The girl had not once ounce of strength left straggling within her (although it never occurred to him that she had, even before). Besides, the image of her wounded and being forced to stare into the dead faces of her parents made it that much easier for him to push back the annoyance of the chore.

The father had not yet died; though his blood still leaked from the side wound he had received from one of the others, a young boy named Joseph. The old man was stronger than any of them had estimated, but given that he was outnumbered, it was only a matter of time before he fell back into their hands. Malachi had not fretted upon learning of his escape. And now, as he tilted his head toward the moon, he smiled. The girl would perhaps get a chance to speak to him one last time. It would be a show each could enjoy. It would be the show that could possibly make her see.

The stars were plentiful, like guardians protecting the moon, and he chuckled wickedly, his trudge transforming into a confident stride. The night was so clear, so very much His, that it was overbearing. His Presence lurked around every corner. Behind the buildings It crawled, over the rooftops It soared, but in the corn where It was the strongest, He _preyed. _

And tonight was going to be that of recognition for the girl. But for Malachi and all the others, it would resume to be the same old song.

--

The Clearing was empty as the darkness washed over the land in waves and the last of the sun's warm glow faded in the distance, on its way lighten another place in the world. The Lord's impatience rumbled through the sky, thunder so loud that it could torture the willing ears of his followers, as they poured out into the streets, dazed.

The children could sense something great, and yet something to be feared, a danger so magnificent that it could take them all away. A danger so fierce, that it could kill if it so wished.

Yet it didn't. At least, and they were thankful for it, not now.

They had heard rumors surrounding the outlander's life. Some children spoke in low tones about how Malachi had slit the girl's throat. Others spoke of how she was locked away inside one of the buildings, still living, still breathing, still _defiling. _The situation seemed like a punishment to them, though they had had no control. None took any favor to it.

But were they willing to speak out against His conduct?

No.

The older females of the assembling crowd took charge of the younger children, who wailed in the choking darkness for comfort. The older males formed a separate crowd, preparing themselves to protect when the need suddenly came to be. And with the way that the darkness above split in half by a single bolt of white lightening, it appeared that it would rise soon, and that they would have to act accordingly. Isaac was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Malachi, and while the children found themselves lost without the reassuring words of their leader, the menacing redhead's disappearance was a blessing.

Above, the thunder seemed to speak horrible words to them, a warning that none could decode. Another flash of lightning, and the rain was hurled down at them, drenching through their clothes. But it felt more like acid, as the children screamed from the invisible burns that scorched their exposed skin, now seeping through their outmoded clothing. The wind shrieked through their ears, His screams, and they knew.

It was His warning.

The corn was being swished every which way by the angry torrents of wind, and each child swallowed his or her fear for the moment, subjecting themselves to His powers.

Because the night was His time, the night was His domain.

--

He could hear the rain beating against the roof of the barn, could hear the thunder's rage as it settled closer rather than staying off where it was best, in the distance. For a moment, he just listened. And he realized that this storm wasn't like all the others. This was His wrath, His way of telling them that failures were not an option. In the demand for a sacrifice, which He had been promised, the Lord had decided to throw a fit.

_A fit? No, it's not just a fit. _His mind interrupted. _It's a warning. A warning saying that next time, perhaps it won't be this pretty. _

This was pretty?

He scoffed at the voice, which had sounded foreign, an outsider invading his most inner thoughts, lodged into the darkness that covered his mind. The smirk he always seemed to wear with absence had vanished, and for a moment, his expression was sober. For a small second, it had been freed from the intoxicating spell of madness. A stirring in the far left-hand corner of the barn disturbed his thoughts, chilled his bones, as he flitted his eyes toward the darkness. He could see nothing, but that didn't mean that something wasn't there, lurking, watching, and breathing. And for an instant he thought he could _hear _the raucous breaths, thought he could _feel _the empty sockets of its eyes somehow seeing through him. Evaluating his worth.

_No._ His mind wanted to collapse, the fear sending his heart to pound wildly in his chest. And then a voice, a terrible sound, like a rake scratching against a chalkboard, sounded in the depths of his mind.

_Malachi. _

The voice was not male or female

(_Malachiii)_

And yet it began to sound like his mother's when he had mercilessly struck her down.

_You killed me._

He could hear the thing shuffling forward, _toward _him, the straws of hay scratchy and rough underneath the pressure of its feet, and Malachi took a step back, his eyes searching desperately for a glimpse of the creature.

_Creature, is that what I am?_

His adam's apple bobbed up and down from the fright, and the air escaped from his lungs in one huge blow.

(_In the corner in the corner look in the corner)_

But he couldn't see anything. The shuffling had stopped, the voice had died, and now the only sound he could hear was that of the wind banging its fists against the barn. His mind slowly clicked back into place as his heart struggled to obtain its steady rhythm. He waited for a minute longer, and once he realized that it had just been his mind

(_He Who Walks Behind the Rows_)

He continued his task. He found the girl lying in the same place he had left her, and his movement seemed to slip out from under him as he hovered above her lifeless body.

_Lifeless. Is she dead?_

_(Yes)_

"No," he breathed, crouching low so that he could listen. He heard nothing.

Her chest did not rise, so it did not fall, and her eyes were still beneath purple lids. Her skin was pallid, so bloodless, and fearing what she was, he carefully placed his hand across her forehead. It drew back instantly, as if he had been burned, and after debating everything inside, he figured he had.

The girl was freezing. The girl was dead.

The voice rose from behind him.

_You must bring her to Me._

_--_

Away from the barn, back in the Clearing, the children gathered. And they waited.

The father was nearing hysterics, clutched tightly and surrounded by children on all sides, screaming for his wife and daughter, though the wife was held up beside him. Dead.

Under the calming reassurance of Isaac's promising words, order had been restored, though the wind still tore through the corn like madness on the run. And, as Isaac stared at the frightened faces around him, his brothers and sisters, each knew that it was true. Madness was, indeed, on the run. It was on a rampage.

He wants more than a sacrifice, Isaac realized dully, a little fearful now. For once, He wants something more than blood. And He still refused to tell what.

_Another knows. _The voice whispered coolly to him, and along with it Isaac imagined a snake slithering adroitly through the fields. _Another has realized. _

The rain no longer fell down upon them, but the wind, strong and determined, swept through the Clearing fiercely, seeming to slice through each of their bones. To be outside in such weather was to be insane, and yet, Isaac knew they had no other option. The comforting walls of their homes could not save them now.

"Silence, my children, for the Lord had commanded for us to wait!" The gushing of panicked babbles suddenly dried up upon the sound of his haunting voice, their attention now called. Isaac studied how well they each dealt with pressure, surveying the youngest children as they shivered underneath their wet clothes, some of the harder females placing sturdy hands upon their shoulders, drawing them close. The softer, weaker females, those who tended to the cooking and cleaning, seemed to drift away, lost in their own piles of frightened thoughts.

The eldest males stood out the most, standing tall on all sides, staring straight at him, which pleased Isaac very much. Though he had little control over the situation, they still believed in him.

_You hold no power, Isaac. Listen for the sounding approach of your most loyal follower, for he has news._

And Isaac did turn his back, ebony eyes scanning across the blustering fields. And he listened.

Sure enough, even over the loud shrieks of wind, he heard.

--

The corn seemed to yield a path for him to make his way through, and the wind seemed to die all around him as soon as he stepped out of the corn and into the Clearing, where all awaited his arrival. The wind still continued to blow, though it had languished greatly. All eyes flitted to the dead girl cradled in his arms, but the pair that stood out most was her father's.

_You are wrong; she is not dead. She awaits her rebirth._

Malachi knew now that it was the Lord speaking to him and not his dead mother. But he didn't know why. The Lord had never spoken to anyone other than Isaac. Why the sudden change?

_Worry not, my child._

Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. Setting the lifeless body down in the gap between the children and Isaac, he breathed hard and fast. He rose slowly and planted his feet firmly on the soggy earth, glancing up to see Isaac's distracted face. His black eyes were exploring the pale body, traveling across the wounds that the children had inflicted, and Malachi thought he could detect remorse. Then, as he took his rightful place among the others, in the center where Ruth stood, the wind died completely. He grasped Ruth's hand in his as was expected, and also because he was afraid.

_Fear not, can't you see it?_

For a moment, he could. He could see everything.

--

The sky was brightened with fresh strokes of lightning, and the wind picked up again, though this time the girl was its target as it swarmed around her with invisible hands. The children backed away, ignoring the father's pained cries, and watched in amazement as the girl's eyes slowly opened, staring above at the furious sky. They watched as their beloved Clearing changed, its well nourished soil and plentiful green grasses slowly losing all the nutrients it held. Gradually, each blade of grass dried up and became a dark shade of brown, and the green corn surrounding them began to look like all the rest, dried and golden. Useless.

They stared in awe at Isaac, who was frozen stiff, his eyes refusing to remove themselves from the girl as her color returned, her wounds healing and becoming soft skin once again.

They watched as she rose on languid limbs, back from the dead. Her mouth moved gently against the dying wind, speaking silent words. Eager, they tried to listen, and disappointed, they heard nothing.

However, as they watched Isaac, watched as his eyes grew wide, they knew.

This was no outlander. This was the Lord Himself, not only speaking through a vessel, but controlling it as well.

Isaac nodded slowly, dropping to his knees and closing his eyes as the girl came before him. She raised her arm, hand landing upon the boy preacher's head, where she fell into his shocked arms.

The wind was dead. The Clearing was dead. But the girl was very much alive.

_The ropes hang_

_To keep us all awake_

_And I should have known_

_It only takes one break_

_Of your pose to get off_

_And to save our place_

_Home with you all_

_That's all it takes_

_Well, I should have known_

_It's still the same song _

_It's still the same song_

Deftones - Deathblow

Ha, I got a little carried away and used Stephen King's unique writing style with the parenthesis. I couldn't help myself, I'm reading the book It for the second time and it's fun. Um, I don't know for sure when I'll update next, other than it might be a long time until I do because 1.) I have tons of school crap to worry about, 2.) I don't know where this story is going, I've changed it a lot as I'm going along, and 3.) I don't know if anyone (other than two people) really likes this or not. Please understand.


	5. Limbo

It was a dream. It was a horrible nightmare that brought out my inner child, coaxed her into the oncoming darkness and shoved her inside. It was the perfect moment for the beast that prowled in the awaiting shadows to plunder my mind, to steal the warmth away and permit the cold to take over. It was agonizing. The process was slow and painful.

What felt like spreading numbness at first had transposed into goading sensations of walking on pins and needles, shards of crystal glass that ripped at the skin and tore the flesh away. The feelings controlled my movements, much like a loopy puppet held together by a series of strings, as I danced across the black flooring of my stage. It was a performance, it was a source of entertainment, as applause broke free and ran loose throughout my pounding eardrums. I was on fire, a pitiful sight. I was something to laugh at, to watch with bright and shining eyes overflowing with amusement. I was out of control.

Then, my blackened surroundings slowly began to take shape, lumps of wet clay being molded into something hideous and overpowering. There was an odd sense of peace wafting throughout the air, an odd sense of relaxation drifting within me. My tense limbs slackened as I stared in awe, my applauding audience gone and my puppeteer carefully hidden from my seeking eyes. The presence was otherworldly, somehow omnipotent over all else, and very much _there. _But where was it so cleverly sheltered? Why did it persist on hiding?

Trees began to form, springing up from underneath the ground, and dark soot was meshed between my toes. The atmosphere was hoary; the only color a dull, dark gray. The trees grew, but they were dead, branches gnarled and extended into the air, as if reaching for an escape. Sounds, foreign and absolutely haunting, rang throughout this tragic world, but lacked clarity and seemed peculiarly faint. Something shifted, an obtuse crackling of a twig sounding from the distance. But just how far could anything be?

My eyes were struggling to look beyond this hellish playground, to see past the deadness, searching out a hint of color, a hint of _life. _This place was perpetual, seeming to extend on and on forever. The barren land stretched on beyond my standpoint, but it all appeared to be the same image, daunting.

_**SNAP.**_

Was it coming? Was the beast slinking forward now, stalking me? Was I prey?

Then, a voice. Colorless, lacking vigor. But it was a voice.

"_Abby? Abby my sweet, my sweet Abby." _

It was familiar, the rushing feeling of nostalgia, hearing that name reflect upon the invisible walls of this cage. Though the voice was genderless and shrill, I knew who it was. And I wished…

"_Abby. Abigail. My dear sweet…" _He was here, wandering around, a lifeless husk without any feeling, and yet…

How was it that love could exist in this place?

_**CRACK.**_

He was walking, shuffling around. He was searching for someone, someone who had been dear to him. My mind contained useless gaps that continued to grow along with his every footstep. And that was when I knew.

_"Abby I miss you I need to… see…"_

He wasn't with me. He was lurking around this realm, perhaps on another side, in an entirely different setting of insanity. I could imagine his eyes, containing a new depth in which he could not be found swimming. Was he lost, abandoned, clueless like myself? How long had we been residing in this nightmare? Time… did it even exist?

Then, a gnawing feeling. A whiplash of guilt traveling through my body, a poisonous spider weaving itself a new home, a web in which it could rest and wait to feed. I could feel my walls crumbling, my vision blurring in hues of empty shades and hollow colors. This place contained life, but they were nothing but menacing shadows, vicious puppets that were dangling from the strings of another force, something incredibly evil. These trees held life, but they were sucking it through their tainted roots planted firmly within the ground, sucking it up through invincible straws. But where was it coming from?

I could hear humming now, ringing throughout my ears. I looked up toward the sky, the gray light stinging my eyes and bringing forth fresh tears. I could cry?

The spider was crawling along my insides, provoking a feeling of unease and feeding the deep pang of guilt. I wasn't alone, hadn't been, and the eyes that could see me left burning holes all over my body. It was watching, waiting, and readying itself to spring up for an attack. I could only watch and listen, finding little comfort in my father's closeness. That is, if he had ever been close at all.

_"I love my sweet Abby, miss my darling Abigail… need…" _The rest of his pleading cry was swallowed by the bitterness that began to fall like a heavy blanket across the dimming land. It was the blackness, prepared to wash over the stillness, threatening to close in and suffocate me where I stood, swaying. It bathed the trees with its eerie, unwelcoming shadows, traveled across the soot like a disease that couldn't be vanquished. It brought a chilling numbness along with it, and it wasn't long until the wheels being cranked inside slowed to an abrupt stop. My father's cries had ceased to exist, and the picture of his face that projected itself across my void mind began to wither, to _blacken_. It, too, was beginning to die.

I could feel the spider spinning itself another web of control, pushing out my emotions for the deadness to consume. My life was being used as a channel, a meager stream of energy, which was being used to keep this place alive. My thoughts were becoming panicked, but continued to disperse into the nothingness, into lost hope and broken dreams.

My mother, Abigail, was no longer existent in this lifetime. She had died, and somehow, I had known. Her soul had fled, and she was not here. Here was where everything lost went, concealed safely in a plastic baggie of swirling slaughter, of slow, torturous deaths. My mother didn't belong in this bleak world of existence, in this realm of hatred and putrid deceit.

Did time exist here? I had almost forgotten what was important. Can time exist in places such as this, a world that can only be described as limbo? Something nibbled inside, perhaps the spider. A great, nagging feeling warned me that somewhere, time was very much existent. Nausea followed in suit, and the bile rose in the back of my throat. The spider's nibbles gradually transformed into goading bites, hundreds of warnings echoing in alien tones throughout my inner walls. Time existed here. If I wasn't careful, if I didn't watch my steps and figure a way out, I would, too.

I, too, was already beginning to fade.

--

I know it was short, but my brain is absolutely fried when it comes to writing this story. I have doubts about continuing. I'm thinking that it would be best if I just scrapped everything and rewrote it, maybe in third-person omniscient point of view or something. I've also lost some of the desire to write this, because, as you can probably tell, fan fiction is definitely not my mojo. Anywho, the revision of this entire story (five chapters, omg) is most likely going to come in the future. A big thanks goes out to all those who have read/reviewed this! And who knows? Maybe I'll think of something and bring out more chapters.


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